


Brief Cognitive-Behavioural Intervention for Panic and Anxiety with Supplementary Sensate-Focusing Strategy: A Preliminary Case Study. Lecter, H., M.D.

by atavistique (Rivers)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dom/sub Undertones, Fingerfucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Scenting, Spanking, Unethical Medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivers/pseuds/atavistique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=887903#cmt887903</p><p>"Just after Will snaps out of his empathetic state at a particularly disturbing crime scene, he experiences a panic attack, suffocated by the emotion of an another person. FBI agents at the scene surround him and hastily call for the medical unit but never really dare to approach him while he is gasping for breath and shuddering. Then Hannibal pushes through the surrounding agents with such a determination that no one can protest against and holds Will in his arms. He continues to stroke Will's head and back and whispers soothing words until he is finally calmed down. Then Hannibal requests Jack that he and Will leave the scene immediately, so they leave. </p><p>The moment they enter Hannibal's house Will is all over Hannibal, begging to feel his own emotion and not someone else's. Hannibal gracefully accepts and fucks him into the mattress."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Cognitive-Behavioural Intervention for Panic and Anxiety with Supplementary Sensate-Focusing Strategy: A Preliminary Case Study. Lecter, H., M.D.

It’s morning, even though it’s actually night. There’s the ticking of the clock next door, muffled by the door and plasterboards.

 

It’s five minutes to eleven.

 

Amanda Jackson is sitting on a couch watching television: Connie Price’s make-over show, British. Her shrill, nasally voice slowly permeates my ears.

 

“This needs to go, _go, go_ \- “

 

The man on television takes off his shirt, shame-faced, as the audience laughs at his disgrace.

 

My gaze refocuses on Amanda. Her coiffed blonde hair sitting perfectly on her shoulders, leopard-print wrap dress stretched over ample bosoms and a well-fed stomach.

 

She laughs obnoxiously at something Price says, a liberal amount of her sidecar slopping onto the pristine couch. I step closer to her. She doesn’t notice. To her, I’m just hired help, another servant, disposable –

 

“You’re nothing,” my mother says. “You’ll never amount to anything. I wish you’d died. If you’d died, I could be happy now.” She swigs aggressively from her flask. A glitter of diamonds at her throat as she swallows.

 

“I’m sorry,” I say.

 

She laughs. “Little cunt.” She looks at a picture-frame above the bed. “If you weren’t here I could be anywhere. I’m stuck here because of you. And you’re utterly useless, aren’t you? Couldn’t even talk properly at the gala. Utterly useless dumbfuck.” Another swig.

 

Silence. Tears streaming down my face.

 

“What, nothing to say?” she’s jeering now, eyes glazed. “Knew you were a good for nothing, never should have married your father, big stack of cash and a dick the size of –“

 

“Mother,” I cry softly, “please stop.”

 

“Get out.” Her voice is suddenly quiet and furious. “I don’t ever want to see you again. _Get out_ -”

 

“- of the living room, what are you doing, dripping all over the rug, you useless lump –“

 

 There’s a knife at her throat and my hand is on the knife. I pin her down; I’m so much stronger now.

 

She struggles weakly. I press until a line of red wells up.  “Pretty necklace,” I hiss. Her eyes pop unattractively under the lurid eyeshadow, but she can’t talk anymore. Something builds up in my skin, an effervescent ecstasy –

 

A tear rolls down her cheek and blends into the blood.

 

“Don’t be sad,” I whisper, “I’ll set you free.”

 

I have a lot of knives. Chef’s knives. I earned them; they are my instruments of power. There is also needle and twine. I use my power to help her, cut through the bonds that tie her to suffering. I sew her eyelids so she won’t have to see me. It’s a glorious work. Her lips work soundlessly and her limbs twitch. And then she’s not moving anymore.

 

I feel powerful. I feel alive.

 

I asked you to stop, mother. And now you’ve stopped. You wanted to be freed. Now you are free.

 

+++

 

A loud _gong_ wakes him from the vision. It’s midnight.

 

Will is shaking, beads of sweat sliding down his face. He gives himself time to come down, to settle back into himself – but something’s wrong. Something’s wrong about this crime, something slimy about it that slithers in his veins and _refuses_ to leave.

 

His breath comes quick and short and his vision starts to burn white at the edges. His skin feels clammy, his legs wobbly –

 

He barely makes it out of the crime scene before he throws up.

 

“Agent Graham –“ It’s Jack’s voice, somewhere close but still too far.

 

“Call the paramedics!” Someone yells.

 

“Will, are you alright?” Bev’s worried voice says, about five feet to his right.

 

There’s a gaggle of people around them now, forming a circle around him, policemen and FBI agents. Worried and tense glances are thrown about, but no one tries to go to him. Someone’s hand is reaching for a gun.

_They’re not worried about me_ , Will realises. _They’re worried what I might do. They’re worried about themselves_.

 

His ears start ringing.

_“ – couldn’t even look people in the eye –“_

_“ – what’s wrong with you? –”_

_“ – Will –“_

 

“ – Will!”

 

He looks up from the floor, vaguely bewildered at being prostrate. He doesn’t remember falling.

 

Hannibal is pushing a young agent out of his way none too gently.  He crouches down, places two fingers against Will’s jugular. The dry, rough pads brush against sensitive skin. Will closes his eyes.

 

“Can you sit?” Hannibal asks, simply, from darkness.

 

“I – I think so,” Will replies, pushing off the floor. Hannibal grasps him firmly and helps him to position. The crowd starts tittering. His face heats from mortification.

 

 “Agent Crawford, I must insist on taking Agent Graham away from the crime scene immediately.” Hannibal’s voice, sober and authoritative, cuts through the idle sounds.

 

Will can’t see Jack’s face from his position, but he could bet it’s not happy relief.

 

“Fine,” Jack snaps tersely. “He won’t be any good to us like this anyway.”

 

 Hannibal goes still. Then an arm slides under Will’s and takes him to his feet. Another wave of nausea takes him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and begins shaking.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Will. I’m taking you home.”

 

Hannibal’s side pressed against Will’s is warm and almost familiar. He smells lightly of sage and sandalwood, and several other things Will can’t place. He can’t quite bring himself to leave the support of Hannibal’s shoulder to sit alone in the car, and if Hannibal’s hand tangling in his damp curls is any indication, it is not an entirely unwelcome intrusion.

 

+++

 

Home, it turns out, is Hannibal’s.

 

Will detaches himself from his therapist’s side so they could unlock the door, and crosses the threshold with the creeping, diseased sensation he had at the crime scene, momentarily fought off after his fit – _oh God, I had a fit at a crime scene_ – remerging like oil slick briefly knocked under the surface of a wave.

 

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks, drawing up a chair at his kitchen bar.

 

Will sits and sips the glass of water that is handed to him. He is of about Hannibal’s height in the stool, their faces this side of too close. He averts his gaze and looks at the herbs growing on the counter-top instead. “I’m fine.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with maroon eyes half-lidded and patient.

 

“Well, not fine. Actually, pretty lousy,” Will slumps, defeated. His hand is shaking again.

 

“Tell me what happened.”

 

“You saw what happened. I blacked out. I’m – I can’t –“

_You’re useless._

 

Hannibal’s palm is resting against his face. Will breathes deeply and counts to ten, forces himself to look at the psychiatrist, and is immediately pinned by his gaze.

 

“What do you need me to do?” Hannibal whispers.

 

 “I –“

 

“What do you need, Will?”

 

“I need to feel. I need, I need to stop feeling. I need myself in my head, in my body, not –“

 

“What do you need me to do?” Hannibal repeats, gently.

 

Will grasps wildly at nothing in his head.

 

And then he puts his hands around Hannibal’s neck, pulling him a step closer. And he leans forward.

 

The kiss is hard and desperate on Will’s part. He tries to communicate through it, through the forcefulness of his assault and the softness of his lips and his urging hands.

 

Hannibal stands stoically, his eyes still half-open, hands at his sides, until at last Will pulls back, panting and shuddering, and fighting not to claw himself open.

 

“Please…”

 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Will. _What do you need me to do?_ ”

 

The answer comes to him, sends a shock of electricity through him.

 

“I need you to fuck me.”

 

“You feel the need to reconnect with yourself through physical senses,” Hannibal paraphrases, maddeningly calm.

 

“ _Yes_ , goddamn _fucking_ it, Hannibal, cut the psych-babble already and _fuck me_.”

 

Hannibal smiles. “With pleasure.”

 

Will makes another attempt to coax him into a kiss, only to be yanked back painfully by his hair.

 

“House rules,” Hannibal says, stern, “no sex in the kitchen.”

 

Will squirms a little, then settles, finds the pain distracting from the _otherness_ in his head.

 

Hannibal seems to read this straight from his mind, tugging at the curls firmly again. “Come with me.”

 

 They reach the bedroom with Hannibal’s hand pinching resolutely – almost too resolutely – the back of Will’s neck. He could almost hear his vertebrae creak under the pressure.

 

The pressure leaves.

 

And then the shock of contact with the wall knocks the breath out of him.

 

“Yes,” he hisses into the air. “Yes,” as Hannibal crowds into his space.

 

“Are you going to keep quiet, or would I have to gag you?”

 

Will bites down on his lip as Hannibal attacks his throat with bites and kisses, fingers working nimbly to unbutton his shirt, pausing only to allow Will to step out of his trousers and boxers.

 

For a moment there is nothing, and Will has to restrain himself from asking if he’d done something wrong. Then he notices the gleam of Hannibal’s eyes in the dim room, taking in every inch of naked skin. Something prickles at the back of his mind; he shivers at the sensation. But then Hannibal is stepping in again, sniffing – scenting – at his hair, his neck, the tip of his nose just glancing off his chest and abdomen, then burying deep in Will’s groin.

 

“Fuck,” he mouths soundlessly at the sight of knees hitting the expensive carpet. Hannibal slaps him sharply on the flank. The sting intensifies for a second, and simmers down. To his disappointment, the psychiatrist gets back to his feet.  

 

“Go to the bed. On your front.”

 

Will complies with little hesitation. The sheets are soft, smooth, nothing he’s ever slept in before, worth luxuriating in, as he allows his imagination free rein with the rustle of cloth he cannot visually appreciate.

 

Then the mattress dips and a cool hand settles at the base of his spine.

 

“How are you feeling now? You may speak.”

 

He has to clear his throat, or let the whine speak for him. “Hot. Nervous.”

 

“And?”

 

“Aroused.” He shifts slightly to alleviate the pressure on his cock.

 

“I see.” Hannibal leans forward until his breath tickles the back of Will’s neck. “Can you see the crime scene in your mind?”

 

Will inhales sharply. “Yes.”

 

“What do you feel now?”

 

He pauses for thought, only to be derailed by the caress slipping slowly down his spine, into his cleft.

 

“Will,” Hannibal prods gently.

 

“ – I’m not sure.”

 

He gasps as a slick finger works its way into him with no warning.

 

“You’re not a murderer, Will. But you can feel them. Like you can feel me now, opening you up. Yes?”

 

Will, lost in sensation, fails to answer.

 

The sound smack on his buttock makes him cry out softly, though more from shock than pain.

 

“Yes, or No?”

 

“Yes,” he pants.

 

“You can control it. You are better than them. Like you can control yourself now, for me. Even if I do this –“ he twists in another finger. Will makes a deep, low noise like a wounded animal. “ – or anything else, you won’t come until I say.”

 

“Ye---ess.”

 

“Very good. Now relax. I will take you through the exercise.”

 

Two fingers slide out and return with another, slicker than before. Will’s fingers tighten into the duvet until his knuckles are white. Immediately another slap comes down, flat and forceful, and a cry flies from him before he could stop himself. Another slap, and he manages to bite down a sob, the heat on his skin lingering. The fingers never left his hole all the while.

 

“Good, Will. Well done,” Hannibal soothes, running fingers through Will’s hair, the other hand moving, spreading him open with obscene wet sounds that makes Will’s cock twitch with need for release; but the petting makes him fall a little deeper into a small pocket of unmarred space in his mind. He lets it happen, lets himself welcome whatever is being done to him. A small part of his mind barks in alarm, but is quickly silenced as the fingers press deeper, upwards –

 

“Oh God –“

 

Another slap, entirely expected this time. “Hush, _mon cher_. Hush.”

 

But the fingers are gone, leaving Will thrumming with frustration and want, though only distantly, as though there’s something more to anticipate.

 

Hannibal pushes in without pause.

 

Will arches and keens and digs his fingers into the mattress, suspended in the feeling of being filled, being wanted, being _used –_

 

Another slick drizzle. “Hold the headboard.”

 

He does, the cock inside him shifting with the movement as he gets onto his trembling knees.

 

“It is fine if you fall, Will. I’m your scaffolding.”

 

Will nods once, and gasps at the draw and give.

 

The thrusting grows deeper, harder, more carelessly brutal, stretching him into a deep ache and a tangle of pure want and pure agony. It touches places in him that makes him blink out for seconds from pleasure; places that makes him grit his teeth with overwhelmed nerves; all of them rocking him closer, closer toward the end.

 

“Close,” he murmurs, even though it’s too soon to be; he’s already straining painfully for self-control.

 

“Remember, Will, not until I say.” Hannibal sounds breathless. He can imagine the unflappable Dr. Lecter, stripped of his impeccable suits, with a sheen of sweat over his skin, hair in disarray from his efforts, muscles flexing in his action; it’s almost enough to undo him, nothing but sheer willpower holding him torturously at the brink.

 

“You can do it, can you not?” Hannibal whispers urgently, not waiting for an answer, “You can come on my cock alone. You can, and you will. But not yet. Almost there.”

 

Will groans, but closes his eyes and arches into it, the last few passes until Hannibal buries himself and says, “Now,” pressing on Will’s windpipe tightly enough to bruise.  

 

His orgasm is wrung out of him, almost painful in its intensity, in a universe of nothing but feeling, no crime scenes or murderers in him, not even air; only him, only Will Graham, and –

 

He feels something snapping in place, slightly wonky.

 

Hannibal is pressed against him when he focuses his gaze. They simply look at each other. And Hannibal traces a finger along the red marks on his skin; and Will lets himself be held down an devoured, their tongues twining and tinted from biting kisses.

 

A new day is slit open, blood-red in the horizon.  It’s four in the morning. Somewhere in the deserted kitchen, a phone starts to ring.

**Author's Note:**

> It's amazing what people come up with at 2am to procrastinate the 10,000 things on their actual to-do list. My confirmation is in a week and what do I do? I write porn. Ha. Well, if I flunk out of grad school at least I can stay home and write all day. And cry a lot. 
> 
> In any case, thank you for reading my fic. If you'd like to talk/leave feedback/have someone to flail with in general, I'm on Tumblr (http://atavistique.tumblr.com/) and Twitter (https://twitter.com/atavistique). Please do come and distract me from real life.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://www.flickr.com/photos/95344145@N04/8708720815/)  
> 


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